Golden Buddha

45

THEOregon was surging into the Bay of Bengal in preparation for the team’s extraction. Word of the street fighting in Lhasa had reached the news media. Television crews, newspaper and magazine reporters, and radio teams were making final preparations to enter the country. To maintain the veil of secrecy necessary for the Corporation to conduct business, they needed to be away from Tibet before the reporters appeared.

So far the plan had worked like clockwork, but there was still a wild card to contend with.

The Russian ruse had successfully tied up the Chinese army far to the north, but the risk now was from the Chinese air force. If Beijing ordered squadrons of bombers and fighter planes to attack the country, the results would be catastrophic. The Dungkar forces had limited means to wage ground-to-air warfare. Carpet bombing of Lhasa would result in heavy losses.

The only hope was if the news media could shine the beacon of truth on China.

If the world could be shown via television that the Tibetans had overthrown their oppressors on their own and that the control of Tibet was in the hands of the people and their divine leader the Dalai Lama, then any bombing by China would be taken for what it was—a senseless act of brutality. The ensuing worldwide condemnation would be a burden even China could not bear.

Hanley placed a call to Bhutan and ordered the C-130 to prepare to evacuate his team.

“CLIMBER one,” Murphy said, “to Rescue.”

Gurt was steering the Bell 212 above a mountain plain with jagged peaks to each side. Several miles in the distance, the rescue helicopter was visible on the ground. As Murphy watched through his binoculars, the rotor blade started to spin, then gain speed until it was just a blur.

“Rescue One,” the radio squawked. “We have visual and will follow along.”

Murphy watched as the helicopter lifted into a high hover, then slowly began to move forward. Passing to one side, Murphy craned his head to the rear and confirmed they were in formation behind and to one side.

“How are you feeling?” he said over the intercom to Gurt.

“My shoulder feels like I’ve been kicked by a mule,” he noted, “but all in all, I’m not doing too bad.”

“I’d like to know what Gampo gave you,” Murphy said.

“Some ancient Tibetan potion,” Gurt said, staring at the gauges. “I just hope it lasts.”

“I spoke to the Oregon,” Murphy said. “One of the backup pilots will fly you back to Bhutan.”

“Heck of a deal,” Gurt said. “I thought I was a goner.”

“Me too, old buddy,” Murphy said quietly. “Me too.”

FOR the Chinese, the battle for Lhasa was all but over. They had lost the initiative when King stopped the movement of the armored column. From that point on, the Dungkar forces had been seized by a rage that showed no boundaries.

Teams under the leadership of General Rimpoche had spread out through Lhasa, rounding up Chinese troops in their barracks and elsewhere. The war for the motor pool was bloody, but after forty minutes of fierce fighting, the Dungkar had taken control.

“This was all the red paint available in town,” a Dungkar warrior said as he slid to a stop inside the fenced yard of the motor pool.

General Rimpoche was sitting in the passenger seat of a Chinese jeep with a bloody bandage wrapped around his lower leg. A red-hot chunk of shrapnel from a fragmentary grenade had hit him as he was leading the last charge in the battle.

“Mark the captured armored personnel carriers and the three remaining tanks with the Dalai Lama’s symbol,” he said, coughing, “then alert our forces that these vehicles are under our control.”

The man scurried off to fulfill the request while at the same time his aide approached.

“I’ve found a dozen men with at least basic knowledge of how to drive,” the aide said. “We can have the vehicles on the streets of the city as soon as they are painted.”

“Good,” Rimpoche said. “We need to show we’re in control.”

Right at that instant, he heard a helicopter approaching from Gonggar. He watched as it passed overhead and headed for Potala.

DETECTIVE Po and his Tibetan underlings had just escaped a mob of Tibetans intent on capturing them. Po was now on the outskirts of Lhasa at the east end of the city. More and more he was considering his mission a failure. Either there was no one answering the description of the people he sought, or the Tibetans he and his men had questioned were lying. But the situation went deeper than that. In the last half hour, Po had felt the tide turn.

More and more he was feeling like the hunted, not the hunter.

His last call to the Public Security Bureau had gone unanswered, and although it might be a figment of his imagination, he was thinking the Tibetans assigned to help him had begun eyeing him differently.

Right then, a helicopter flew overhead and slowed to touch down on the flats below Potala.

“Stop the truck,” Po ordered.

The driver slowed and stopped. The helicopter was only two hundred yards away and the skids had just touched the ground. Straining to watch with his binoculars, Po waited until the dust from the rotor wash had cleared and the occupants climbed out. The leader of the group was wearing a helmet, and he was pointing out a spot on the palace grounds to the other men who had climbed out. At that instant, Po saw the man remove a portable telephone from his belt. Then he removed the helmet to hear.

Po stared through the binoculars. The man’s hair was worn in a short blond crew cut, but his face was familiar. Po watched.

“YOU’RE sure, Max?” Cabrillo asked.

“I just received confirmation,” said Hanley, a thousand miles away on the Oregon.

“Good, I’m going in,” Cabrillo said.

“The media is on their way,” Hanley said, “and the Dalai Lama has already left India. Both are due to arrive in Lhasa in just over an hour. We need you all out of there posthaste. I’ve dispatched the C-130 from Thimbu, and Seng is rounding everyone up. Just get this done—and get out of there.”

“All I can say is that you’d better have some beer on board that plane,” Cabrillo said, laughing.

“Bet on it,” Hanley said.

THE smile. the smile was the same as that of the man on the tape. Po slid the binoculars back in the case and turned to the driver. “To Potala.”

“FLY the cargo to that level and unload it,” Cabrillo said, pointing to a stark white center section of the palace, “then start searching. I’ll meet you on the courtyard that abuts the taller section.”

The Dungkar in charge of the detail nodded.

“I’m going to take the stair and search the lower levels,” Cabrillo said, removing a small portable oxygen tank from inside the helicopter and strapping it on his back. He attached a nose clip, turned on the flow of oxygen, then started up the stairs.

A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted off the flats and dropped off the Dungkar and cargo. Four minutes later, the truck carrying Po and the Public Security Bureau members slid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Po unholstered his pistol and, followed by the others, started up the stairs. Cabrillo disappeared out of sight in the first structure bordering the stairs.

The helicopter, now empty, parked on the flats near the truck.

The pilot noticed the truck and radioed the Oregon.

“It has markings from the Public Security Bureau,” he said.

“I’ll call Cabrillo,” Hanley said, “but I wouldn’t worry about it right now. We’re receiving sporadic radar returns here. We have yet to determine the source. Watch overhead.”

GEORGE Adams had stopped and refueled the Chinese attack helicopter twice. Chuck Gunderson still had half a tank. For the most part, their mission so far had been quiet. Gunderson had been called in to monitor the fighting at the motor pool, but the Dungkar had gained control fast enough that they never needed his makeshift gunship. Adams had yet to locate a clear target to fire upon. In the last twenty minutes, the situation had changed—other than a few pockets of small-arms fire in the city, it appeared that Lhasa was now firmly under Dungkar control. Both men could see the transformation clearly from the air—the war was almost over.

“Gorgeous George, this is Tiny,” Gunderson said over the radio.

“Hey, Chuckie,” George said, “you as bored as I am?”

“I’m telling you—” Gunderson started to say.

“This is Climber One,” Murphy said. “A trio, meaning three, Chinese fighters just blew past me and Rescue One. We are fifty miles out of Lhasa inbound for Gonggar.”

“All Corporation members, this is the Oregon,” Hanley said. “We have detected three Chinese fighters inbound from the northern theater. Assume them as unfriendly. Prepare to take cover. All offensive forces report in now.”

“Predator, ready,” Lincoln said from his remote station in Bhutan.

“Attack One, ready,” Adams said.

“Gunship One, ready,” Gunderson said.

“I’m sorry, people,” Hanley said. “They must have slipped in low under the radar. We now have intermittent returns and expect arrival in minutes.”

The three fighters roared down the canyon from the north toward Lhasa.

CABRILLO was in a large prayer room with small rooms to each side. He was searching each room one at a time, but the going was slow. Po and his team had made it up the stairs. Po paused outside the door with his pistol in the air and peered inside. Then, seeing no one, he crept inside. Cabrillo was searching through a large stack of wooden crates in a storeroom. His attention was focused on locating the poison gas, so he was unaware that Po and his men were outside. The crates contained scrolls, old textbooks and documents. Wiping his hands, he walked out.

Po was standing outside the door with his pistol trained on Cabrillo’s chest. The six members of the Public Security Bureau carried rifles, which they pointed at him as well.

Cabrillo smiled. “Morning, men,” he said easily. “Just changing the filters in the furnace. This old palace can get a mite drafty when it snows.”

“I’m Detective Ling Po from the Macau Constabulatory, and you’re under arrest for theft and murder.”

“Murder?” Cabrillo said quietly. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Your little Buddha theft and the subsequent escape left three Chinese citizens dead.”

“Do you mean when the Chinese navy attacked my boat?” Cabrillo said. “They started it.”

Right at that instant, the first fighter plane passed over Lhasa, and all hell broke out.

MURPHY’S warning gave Adams and Gunderson just enough time to prepare. Adams clung to the side of a mountain west of Lhasa, pointing his tail boom toward the fighters. Gunderson clung to the mountains on the east side with the mini-gun ready to fire. The Predator was in a slow orbit over Gonggar, ready to protect the area.

The fighters passed over Lhasa and unleashed their chain guns, killing scores of Tibetans, then they continued toward the airport. A minute or so later, the fighters neared Gonggar and the antiaircraft guns opened fire. Flying through flak, the lead fighter pilot passed over the airport, then made a sweeping left turn back toward Lhasa. Slowly a helicopter appeared against the mountain. Then a puff of smoke and a flaming spear emerged from under the fuselage.

Adams watched the video camera and made adjustments as the missile streaked toward the fighter. He’d aimed for the main fuselage. What he hit was a wing. The pilot ejected and Adams saw a chute open.

In a textbook maneuver, the second fighter pilot had broken right. He was racing back toward Lhasa when a target showed on his radar scope off his left wing. Before he could react, a Chinese cargo plane appeared. Confused for a second by the appearance of a seemingly friendly force, the pilot hesitated firing.

“Open up,” Gunderson shouted to the rear.

The Tibetan gunner let loose with a volley that stitched the side of the fighter like a shotgun blast to the gut of a duck. The man kept firing even after the plane passed from view.

“I think you got him,” Gunderson shouted back. “Hold off.”

Gunderson made a sweeping turn and caught a glimpse as the flaming wreckage spun into a mountain. There was no ejection, no salvation.

As soon as the third fighter realized they were being fired upon, he made a steep climb straight up in the air. The Predator was hot on his tail.

“Fire four,” Lincoln said over the radio as he blew off all his remaining missiles at once.

The jet raced into the heavens, but the lighter and smaller missiles were faster.

The Tibetans on the ground watched as the white contrail from the jet made a straight line up into the sky. Two sets of twin tendrils of steam followed. Then, high over Lhasa, a fireball erupted. The three fighters would fight no more.

“GO see what that was,” Po ordered one of the Tibetans.

The man walked out and stared down at the city, then walked back inside. “Planes attacking,” was all he said when he returned.

“That’s the Chinese retaking the city,” Po said. “In a few minutes—”

Just then Cabrillo’s telephone rang. So he answered it.

“Excuse me,” he said to Po, holding his hand over the receiver.

“Right,” Cabrillo said. “Okay, good. No, not yet, there has been a slight snag. There is a Macau policeman here that’s—”

Po slid his pistol in his holster and batted the telephone to the floor.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Cabrillo said. “I didn’t buy the extended warranty.”

Po was enraged. His control was slipping and he needed it back now.

On the Oregon, Hanley was still listening to the open line.

“Against the wall,” Po said, dragging Cabrillo against a stone wall, then stepping back.

Cabrillo stood there, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning.

“What do you think, Po” he spat. “That you’re judge, jury and executioner?”

“Men,” Po said, “line up.”

The Tibetans formed a firing line, their rifles at their shoulders.

On the Oregon, Eric Stone was next to Hanley, listening in. “Sir,” he said, “what can we do?”

Hanley raised his hand to quiet him.

“On behalf of the Macau authorities,” Po said, “I have heard your admission of guilt and find you guilty of murder. Your sentence is death by firing squad, at this time and place.”

Stone looked in horror at Hanley, whose face remained impassive.

“Do you have any last words or pleas?” Po asked.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said. “I ask that you stop this nonsense immediately—there is a deadly gas somewhere in this palace, and if I don’t find it soon, we all will die.”

“Enough of your lies,” Po thundered. “Men, prepare to fire.”

Cabrillo brushed his hand along his crew-cut hair, then smiled and winked.

“Fire,” Po shouted.

A volley of shots rang out and the prayer room was filled with the scent of gunpowder.

“THERE they are,” the leader of the Dungkar detail said.

Three stainless-steel canisters were marked with Chinese symbols. The Dungkar erected the apparatus to burn off the gas, then started to dress in gas masks and rubber gloves. The gas had been right where Zhuren had said.

“Has anyone seen the American?” the Dungkar leader asked.

The answer came back negative.

“Slowly and carefully start to destroy the gas,” the leader said. “I’m going downstairs to report.”

THE smoke cleared and Cabrillo was still standing. One of the Public Security Bureau officers reached over and took Po’s handgun from his holster. Then he did a quick pat-down search to look for other weapons.

“You missed,” Cabrillo said, wiping a fleck of blood off his cheek from where a chip of stone had struck.

Stone looked over at Hanley, who smiled. “The Tibetans are with us,” he explained. “They have been all along.”

Stone raised his arms in the air in exasperation. “No one tells me anything,” he said.

Cabrillo was walking over to pick up his telephone when the Dungkar leader burst into the room. He stared at the scene in shock. Against the far wall was a large outline of a man that had been made by the bullets striking the stone. Five PSB officers were standing with rifles, while a lone PSB officer was placing another man in handcuffs.

“We found the gas,” the Dungkar blurted out. “We’re burning it off now.”

Cabrillo bent down and retrieved the telephone. “Max,” he said, “did you hear that?”

“I did, Juan,” Hanley said. “Now get the hell out of there.”

Cabrillo folded the telephone in half and slid it in his pocket. “Norquay, I assume?” he asked the leader of the PSB officers.

“Yes, sir,” the officer answered.

“Assist the Dungkar with the destruction of the gas,” Cabrillo said. “Then secure Potala. General Rimpoche will be in contact with you soon—thanks for your help.”

Norquay nodded.

“To a Free Tibet,” Cabrillo shouted.

“To a Free Tibet,” the men answered.

Cabrillo began walking toward the door.

“Sir?” Norquay said, “there’s just one more thing.”

Cabrillo paused.

“What do you want us to do with him?” Norquay said, motioning to Po.

Cabrillo smiled. “Let him go.”

Cabrillo reached for the door handle. “But take his uniform and papers. He’s just too emotional to be a policeman.”

Then Cabrillo walked out the door, climbed down the steps and boarded the helicopter. Five minutes later he was back at Gonggar Airport. Ten minutes later he and his team were airborne in the C-130. They passed the fleet of leased helicopters in the air, headed for Bhutan, and the pilot of the C-130 wagged his wings. The helicopters returned the good-bye by flicking on their landing lights.

Then the team settled in for the short flight. Soon they’d be back on the Oregon.